


I'll Never Live the Life That Wakes Me in the Night

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-27
Updated: 2006-08-27
Packaged: 2018-09-03 04:31:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8696665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: This is sort of just a look into the relationship of Sam and Dean post-Fitchburg. Um...there isn't really a resolution, because I don't see the resolution coming until Devil's Trap, but I hope you'll all enjoy regardless!





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

**Title:** I'll Never Live the Life That Wakes Me in the Night  
**Characters:** Sam/Dean  
**Rating:** NC-17 for language and incest.  
**Word Count:** 2, 933  
**Spoilers/Warnings:** _Something Wicked_ ; incest, graphic m/m sex, mentions of underaged dirty deeds, gratuitous use of "baby".  
**Disclaimer:** Oh, if only.   
**Summary:** This is sort of just a look into the relationship of Sam and Dean post-Fitchburg. Um…there isn’t really a resolution, because I don’t see the resolution coming until _Devil’s Trap_ , but I hope you’ll all enjoy regardless!  
  
  
  
  
  
One thing Dean quickly learned from hunting, is that in the darkness? You can’t see, but you can feel. Hear. Smell. Every underused sense is heightened and intense. It’s a little bit freeing, in a way. To be rid of the limitations and restrictions of believing only what your eyes tell you is true.  
  
He _hears_ Sam breathing over him. _Feels_ him standing at the end of Dean’s bed. Watching. And yeah, the darkness is great, but sometimes Dean wishes for the blaring half-truths of the light. Especially when it makes it easier to ignore, avoid.  
  
“You awake?” Sam’s voice is thready with sleep, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut and stays silent. Knowing he’s still gonna answer anyway. At least he can put up the front that he had a choice in the matter.  
  
“No.” He cuts the word off at the edges, hoping Sam will take that for more than what it means. That he’ll turn around and take himself back to his bed across the room and go back to sleep. Leave Dean be.  
  
Instead, the mattress dips. Heat crawls up Dean’s spine, and he grinds his teeth together to keep from saying anything else. Locks his legs together so as not to slide any closer than what the roll of the mattress dictates. His breath seems too loud in his ears, and he thinks that it’s more than enough conversation from his end.  
  
But it appears Sam’s in the mood to talk enough for both of them. “You ever wonder…” he trails off so quickly that Dean half-wonders if he bit his tongue. There’s a dull, aching quality to Sam’s tone that gnaws away at his insides, making him want - _need_ \- to roll over and glimpse whatever’s in his brother’s eyes. Knowing that will more than tell him what’s wrong.  
  
Instead, he just waits.  
  
“You’ve saved my life so many times.” Sam kind of laughs, but there’s no amusement. The mattress sags again, and the hair on the back of Dean’s neck prickles when the length of Sam presses up against him. Whether by accident or intention is still unclear.  
  
He decides the moment calls for a quick shift in mood. “So, what, you gonna get all girly and blubbery and apologize again? Thank me?” he asks, finding it much easier to accept that kind of gratitude from his brother in a cool, dark motel room. When he doesn’t have to deal with seeing it mirrored in Sam’s eyes.  
  
There’s a pause, and then Sam’s breath is in his ear, heady and warm, but Dean refuses to budge. They haven’t been this close – emotionally, physically, or otherwise – in years. Long before Jess or Cassie or any of the number of people they’ve met along the way.  
  
“Is that what you want?” Sam’s voice sounds thick and bleary. Tired. “A thank you?” And then, big palms settle across Dean’s thigh, long fingers edging close to the hard line of his dick, and Dean’s teeth sink into his bottom lip. He tastes blood and spit and something forbidden on the back of his tongue.  
  
He grunts, shifting over a bit to regain his equilibrium. Because he knows what this is all about. Little Sammy finally realized just how much Big Brother sacrificed for him. And now he’s feeling guilty and wanting to make amends, and fuck _that_. Dean’s gone years without having what – who – he really wanted. He figures he has plenty of years left in him.  
  
He’s not a goddamn charity case.  
  
“Dean.” His name is a sigh on Sam’s lips, and he feels it against his cheek and smack dab in the middle of his heart. And it’s enough to have him turning, facing Sam and whatever demons reside inside of him wearing his brother’s face and his brother’s voice. His brother’s hands.  
  
“I just…” Sam licks shiny lips, eyes searching Dean’s expression much the same way they had while waiting for the Shtriga to appear in Michael’s bedroom. This blatant appreciation and adoration that makes Dean’s skin crawl, even as it fills him up with _thank you God_ gratitude. Sam leans closer, sighs again, and Dean can taste it on his tongue.  
  
“Sammy—” he starts, surprised by the husky growl that comes out of his throat when Sam suddenly sits up, holding Dean’s gaze and sliding his hands up and under the hem of his shirt. “What the fuck are you doing?”  
  
Sam’s gaze glitters in the pale moonlight that streaks across the bed, pulling the shirt up and over. It lands somewhere Dean can’t see, a soft plop on the cheap carpeting. “Thanking you,” Sam murmurs, lips tilting just slightly. But not enough to dispel the genuine anxiety lurking at the edges of his expression. He waits a beat, half-naked, all hard planes and soft emotions, and Dean can’t look away. “Isn’t this what all your damsels in distress do?”  
  
Dean flinches. “You’re not a fucking damsel, Sam,” he points out unnecessarily. Knowing his brother’s only baiting him. To what end, Dean doesn’t know, but it really isn’t fucking fair of Sam to still have this effect on him. Whatever they’d had…it’d been over before anything could have ever come of it.  
  
It had been over the minute Sam made the choice that Normal was more important than Dean.  
  
But Sam doesn’t seem to remember what’s important to him, or that he’d chosen school and a normal life over Dean and hunting. He’s staring down at Dean with that same tender look that’s been there all day, all week, and it’s starting to wear down the years-old defenses Dean has in place.  
  
And then he’s sliding one long leg over Dean’s waist, groin settling deep in the pocket of Dean’s thighs, and leans forward on both arms. Bringing his face way too close. “It’s okay, you know.” And the words are sugar and sentiment and way too damn tempting.  
  
Dean’s never been any damn good at resisting temptation.   
  
“What’s okay?” he manages, a bit gruffly, trying not to react when Sam starts a slow rocking – rubbing – against Dean’s stomach.  
  
“Wanting this,” Sam answers, lids heavy and words a rasp. He drops his head another inch, shoulders bowing back. His hair is a tousled mess and brushes across Dean’s nose in a gentle tickle. There’s a little catch in his voice when he adds, “Again.”  
  
And it’s like drowning, falling off of a cliff. A short, sharp burst somewhere in his chest as he curses and reaches up to grab Sam by the shoulders. His brother’s eyes darken, lashes so thick and girly lowering even more as he parts his lips expectantly.   
  
“Not gonna happen, Sammy.” He doesn’t know where he manages to find the strength to say that, to reject what his brother is so willingly offering. Not when every bone and cell in his body is screaming out for it.  
  
Sam’s lips press together, and he stares down at Dean. A little furrow starts between his brows, and then disappears. “You don’t want me?” And it’s the fucking astonishment there that finally does it. Pushes Dean over the deep end. He lets a little hysteria-edged laugh.  
  
“Hell, since when have you wanted _me_ , Sam?”  
  
And God, as soon as it’s out he wants to call it back. Can’t stand to hear the vulnerability – the broken shards of something, someone, he once was – coloring his voice. Hates that Sam is here to see it happen. Because he knows he’ll never be able to deny it now, not when Sam _knows_.  
  
“Dean, I…” His brother trails off, breath hitching. “I just want to do this.”  
  
And that’s pretty much all there is to it. No frills, no fuss. Sam wants something, and Dean’s gonna give it to him. Because Dean wants what Sam wants, in a sick and twisted way. Even knowing that it’s probably the very last thing he _should_ want.  
  
Sam’s mouth brushes against his, Sam’s bottom lip catching the underside of Dean’s fuller one. There’s a short intake of breath, and then Sam’s against him. And Dean can taste him again.  
  
He’s never forgotten. Fuck, he still jerks off to memories of Sam – younger and skinnier but just as pouty as ever – climbing up his body and rubbing himself and Dean off to blistering orgasms while Dad slept down the hall or next door in whatever motel they were inhabiting during Those Days.  
  
The fact that it’s happening again shouldn’t be too much of a surprise. Maybe Dean had even been expecting it, to an extent. But he’d expected a more clinical, cursory encounter. None of this emotional bullshit. He’d thought they’d rid themselves of that the night Sam had looked him in the eye and said none of this, none of _Dean_ was worth putting his life on hold.  
  
It’s that thought that has him pulling away, shoving a hand up against Sam’s chest as their mingled breath catches and twists in the air between them. His brother’s too close to really make out anything but swollen lips and gleaming eyes. But he can feel Sam’s confusion.  
  
“What?” _Why are you stopping?_  
  
“This isn’t a good idea.” _You don’t really want this. Or me._  
  
He waits for Sam to get all pissy and back off, is prepared for that. But instead, Sam rolls his hips and lets Dean feel just how much he _does_ want what’s inevitably occuring, and Dean turns his head. Cheek pressed to the pillow, one final plea for strength.  
  
Sam’s tongue maps a velvety quest from the corner of his mouth to his jaw, and Dean’s shaking. Struggling not to give in, when he knows he’s already surrendered. His fingers are twisted in the sheets so as not to be anywhere on Sam.  
  
“Come on…” Sam’s whispering, all dark and husky and sultry-sweet. “Before…never got this far…you never let me…”  
  
Damn right he hadn’t. Because he’d still possessed a shred of sanity back then.  
  
Sam’s fingers are working at the waistband of his sweats now, tugging the elastic down and over Dean’s hips, and instead of stopping it Dean just lifts up and lets him pull them away. A spark of triumph, appreciation, lights his brother’s eyes and his teeth flash in the darkness. One hand settles over Dean’s cock, stroking and palming the swollen flesh. “You gonna let me now?”  
  
Dean just wants him to shut up. Doesn’t want to think about it, just wants it to _happen_ so he can freak out about it and then, _please God_ , get over it. His hand wraps around Sam’s neck, tugging him back down to silence him with his tongue. Sam groans heavily, sinking into the cradle of Dean’s arms and legs, still stroking. Petting.  
  
When Sam pulls back, question written all over his features, Dean nods jerkily. “Yeah, Sam.” The words sound ragged and torn, but are underlaid with need and desire and fifty-thousand other things Dean wishes he didn’t feel in association with his brother.  
  
Sam licks his lips and nods, sitting up so quickly that it disorients Dean. And then he’s bending, stretching, for the nightstand. A sharp click-clack of the top drawer later, and Sam’s holding a small bottle in his hand and is watching Dean with eyes that clearly say _no turning back now._  
  
Dean just nods, again, and Sam gives a lazy smile that sends blood racing to his dick. Everything starts to go fuzzy and slow when Sam reaches for his own pants. Tongue caught between his lips in intense concentration a minute later as he slicks his fingers and reaches back to—  
  
“Oh, holy fuck, Sammy.”  
  
His voice breaks the second Sam’s fingers pierce himself, and Dean can only watch in rabid awe as Sam’s lashes flutter closed and his brother lets out a little sound that’s somewhere between pleasure and discomfort. Sam’s rocking again, chewing at his lips and even in the dark Dean can see the flush highlighting those angular features.  
  
Sam’s thighs tighten around his middle, and Dean can’t take it anymore. He’s hot and panting and glazed over when he rips the bottle away from Sam and slicks his cock. Sam’s watching, eyes half-open and blurry; fingers still fucking himself in slow, gentle thrusts. “Dean…feels really…”  
  
“Tell me how it feels, baby,” Dean mutters, sliding his free hand up Sam’s leg and reaching for the blood-swollen flesh there. The minute he wraps his fingers around Sam’s cock, his brother gasps and arches his back.  
  
There’s a growling sound, and then Sam’s hovering over him. Eyes locked and dead serious as he slides his tongue across his mouth and says, “Hold still, okay?”  
  
Dean wants to laugh. “Yeah, I think you might wanna worry about yourself there, Sam.” His heart is thundering in his ears, gaze caught as Sam grits his teeth and sinks down over him inch by slow inch. His hands are at Sam’s hips, squeezing. Digging in. “Jesus Christ.” His voice is just a shot, wispy little thread of nothing.  
  
“Yeah?” Sam’s face is all screwed up, the barest hint of excitement edging out the obvious pain. “Oh fuck, it hurts.”  
  
The raw honesty is somehow more intimate than the fact that he’s buried inside Sam, and Dean’s heart flops and turns over as he sits up on his elbows. “Sam, we don’t have to—”  
  
“Shut up,” Sam grits out, sounding more like himself than he has since they’d arrived in Fitchburg. That little bit of petulance goes a long way toward easing Dean’s uncertainty, but he still holds his breath and waits while Sam wiggles his hips and makes another soft, fretting sound. “Okay, you gotta sit back and let me do the work here, Dean.”  
  
The gasped words are like fuel to the fire. Dean falls back immediately, swallowing a bit. “You wanna drive? Fine.” He wants to sound sarcastic, cocky, but only just sounds pleading. Horny.   
  
Sam just sends him a look, and then takes Dean’s hand from his hip and guides it downward. “Just…don’t stop touching me,” he slurs, lids falling half-mast again as Dean tangles their fingers and slides them up and down Sam’s cock in a slow, burning stroke.  
  
It’s not gonna be a hard and dirty fuck like he always imagined it would be. Instead, it’s slow and lazy and a little bit sweet; rough and heady gasps mingled with sweat-flavored kisses. Gentle thrusts and slick-slides.  
  
Dean can see the shift of pleasure across Sam’s features, his large hands splayed across Dean’s chest as he levers himself up and down, eyes unfocused and pupils blown. Small rolls of his hips that drag Dean’s cock along inside of him. Dean keeps on jerking him in slow, controlled motions, arching up and biting his lip.  
  
Sam shakes his head, seeming to come out of a daze. His voice is lax and syrupy. “I never…”   
  
The thought is wasted when Dean cants his hips again, catching something inside of Sam that has his brother shaking and whispering gibberish and arching his back so that every muscle in his body stands out in stark relief. “Again,” he demands, gasps, rocking back and holding himself in that precarious position as Dean breathes hard and drives in again.  
  
And again. Until Sam’s holding himself up with his arms and hands stretched out on the mattress, and Dean’s pretty damn sure the show alone is enough to throw him over the edge even without the accompanying soundtrack of Sam’s whimpers and throaty cries for more.  
  
He tightens his fist a little desperately, needing to push Sam over that last little bit. He can’t allow himself even now to give into his own needs before Sam has his. A few twists and tugs, and his brother slumps forward. Dean’s name is rich on his lips, warm come splashing across Dean’s fingers.  
  
Sam’s voice is a low keening, and Dean grits his teeth and thrusts harder, brow creased and eyes locked on Sam’s profile in the moonlight. All it takes is a single glimpse of his brother’s fucked-out expression, and he’s losing his grip on sanity, coming in heavy bursts and jolts. Blood tingling and charged in his veins.  
  
Sam is smiling down at him when its over, expression lazy and satisfied. Dean wants to look away, doesn’t want to deal with what that look means, but Sam’s got him as firmly planted in his back pocket as ever. His thighs are hot and sweat-slick around Dean’s hips when he shifts forward and says, “Well?”  
  
“Gonna be sore,” Dean mumbles, licking his lips and pointedly putting pressure on Sam’s waist. “Better go sleep it off, Sam.”  
  
“I feel fine.” And he sounds it. Which makes Dean all that much more frustrated, because he? Doesn’t feel anywhere inside the realm of fine. His limbs are heavy and lethargic from sex, tongue thick with emotion he _hates_.   
  
“Sam, just…” _Please._ But he’s not gonna beg.  
  
And then Sam’s quiet, lifting himself up and off with a wince. Rolling over to reach for something out of Dean’s line of sight, and Dean just closes his eyes and waits for his brother to leave.  
  
Again.  
  
Sam’s lips are on his throat a minute later, tongue teasing the beard-roughened shadow under his chin as he settles against Dean. “Just wanna be right here,” he whispers, nuzzling.  
  
And the dark has a way of making that sound truthful, of making Dean want to believe Sam means it – wants him – but he knows in the harsh light of day, nothing will have changed. And he can’t afford to let it mean more.


End file.
